


The Masquerade of Blood

by CrimsonParadise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Dark!Harry, F/M, M/M, Mentor!Bellatrix, Minister!Riddle, Multi, Slash, ooc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonParadise/pseuds/CrimsonParadise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter, Bella Lestrange's charge, is the last person you would expect to plot Grindelwald's release, especially during an international tournament. He himself doesn't expect Minister Tom Riddle to offer him a job as his assistant - a decision that entrenches Harry in a vortex of politics and dark secrets. But he has never believed Riddle to be benign anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Masquerade of Blood

Cold. And wet. Harry shivered and pulled the cloak he had filched from Dudley tighter around him.

The slums didn’t inspire good mood, nor did the pouring rain, the droplets soaking Harry to his skin. He should have snitched a hat or an umbrella, too, but the time had been sparse. Now he could only lament and curse and shiver, but not improve the situation – a move out of his shelter would be an unwise decision in the unsafe environment he temporarily inhabited.

A runaway. How pathetic, to witness what he had reduced to: dirt, hunger, thirst... And dirt again.

Harry bared his teeth in a bitter grin.

He hated his life, sometimes even thinking of leaving it for good, flipping the bird to the living but rejoin his gentle mother and kind, protective father...

Yet, suicide was giving up. And Harry would rather endure it all than take the easy way out and off himself in desperation, allowing the Dursleys to receive the triumph of his eternal demise.

No, Harry’s pride prevented him from acting the occasional morbid dream of his own death out in real life, outside of the horrors of his sleep.

“Aw, aren’t you a sweet darling, child?” a female voice crooned just over his head. Harry spun on his heels, his small hand clenched around the handle of the butcher knife he never released those days, prepared to injure and to hurt and to kill – all to protect himself.

Just as he raised his hand to score the blade down the intruder’s body, a set of delicate fingers caught his wrist in a steely grip. Harry’s eyes widened when he eyed the woman in front of him. She tsked and wagged her finger in chastisement.

“Now, this is no way to talk to your saviour, dear,” she chided him mildly, her countenance morphing into an expression of gentle rebuke that Lily had often worn, but never Petunia.

“Saviour?” Harry scoffed before breaking out into peals of bitter crows. The woman allowed him to double over, only amusement written on her face. “I’m hardly going to believe you’ll provide me with food and shelter for the night.”

“Don’t bite a helping hand; it’s rude... But we have a lot of time together to get rid of those awful manners muggles must have instilled in you.” Her lips pulled apart to reveal a set of gleaming white teeth, black eyes mad and wide. “After all, I offer you much more than a one-night stay. I’m willing to offer you a _home_.”

Here Harry’s heart wept. For despite the tough act he pulled, despite his continuous everyday insistence to himself that he had no one but he needed no one, too, the _craving_ never left him for a second. Witnessing Petunia embrace Dudley, parents kissing Piers Polkiss, fathers proudly clapping their sons on the shoulders and cheering up their daughters, all giddy with happiness and normalcy...

Perhaps it was another reason Harry had fled. Couldn’t stand the torture of casual observations that twisted in his heart like green-eyed snakes.

Still, he quenched the thirst and hunger for a family. He had had one and had failed it... Who was to say the history would not repeat itself?

“You’re too bland for a kidnapper. And I don’t believe in altruism,” Harry replied curtly. Eyes closed to show how unimpressed he felt, he started walking away from that premature asylum-leaver who lacked common sense enough to offer a nameless orphan a home... When that same hand grabbed his shoulder again.

This time, when the woman spoke, her voice sung with suppressed rage sweetened by persuasion.

“Oh, so it seems we share one thing in common already.” She tugged on his arm to whirl him around to face her, unceremoniously grasping his chin to move it to the sides as she carefully inspected every inch of his face, from the tear tracks Harry attempted to surreptitiously wipe to exotic emerald eyes and a few scratches. “But it is not the only thing we have in common.”

Her hand reached into her pockets and fished out an object Harry had believed he would never see again in his imprisonment.

A wand.

She chortled at his astounded expression.

“Is itty bitty darling surprised to see a witch? Poor, poor dear,” she cooed into his ear as she embraced him. Surprise immobilised Harry enough for him to remain unmoving. “You lack magic so much in your life that can’t even recognise one now...” She traced a tender finger down his cheek before patting it in a condescending fashion. “That’s why my master and I agree that magical children must be kept with our kind, not as outsiders amongst this...” Her red lips twisted in a grimace; a reproachful glare swept their surroundings. “Scum.”

Suddenly, everything crashed home. Harry’s vague recollections of childhood washed over him and brought with them hazy evening spent with Lily lending Harry her knees to rest his head on, her fingers in his hair, while James raved about Dark witches and wizards.

Among them, a few particular names stood out. James Potter always reserved a touch of vitriol more for the infamous-

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Harry croaked out, eyes wide and disbelieving... But a surge of hope rose in him. He re-united with his people, at last.

Lestrange grinned.

“This name is synonymous with ‘elite’, my dear. You will be great, you will be respected and admired as my _heir_ \- But all if you fulfil a few conditions of mine...”

A calculating glint entered Harry’s eyes.

Entering home to find his parents’ blood and brain matter splattered across the walls and floors of their quaint house. Being shipped off to the Dursleys, a family which held nothing but contempt for him and offered even less. And, finally, running away only to wake up and realise the uselessness of his life...

Weary, Harry grasped the one opportunity he wouldn’t let slip away.

“I’d like to hear those conditions.”

“Good boy. First conversation, and you’re already making me so pleased.”

OoOoOoOoO

 

“I’m so proud of you, my darling,” Bella crooned into Harry’s ear. He bore her possessive grip around his shoulders with stoicism. She seized him tighter, as if wishing to merge her bones with his, before she loosened her hold and backed away a step, her mad grin splitting her face in two.

For all her insanity, Harry returned the expression. An air of anticipation and breathless wonder hung around them, lapped him in waves, almost smothering with its potency. His life would change tonight. Both knew that well.

“You have nothing to be proud of yet, Bella. What I receive tonight is my legacy, not a reward for an accomplishment,” Harry corrected the woman he saw as a mother mildly, gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “But you will have.” Playfully, he tapped his temple. “A lot of plans and schemes are swirling in my head right now, and after my initiation I dare say you may find yourself astounded.”

He chuckled at the spark of expectation that entered her onyx eyes and fled just as quickly, leaving speculation in its wake.

“Aw, a ploy!” Bella chortled. As her body shook in laughter, her curls of darkest black flew around her face in an uncontrollable manner. “My darling Harrykins conspires! I wonder, I wonder, my dear,” her voice descended into breathlessness, and, standing up on her toes, she leaned in to nuzzle his neck. “Does it have anything to do with the execution of muggles?”

Harry patted her head like he would an eager puppy.

“That and more,” he promised lightly into her hair. “I will stir up the slumbering embers of muggle hunts into a fire. But!” He pushed her away and adopted a regretful tone. “Not at once. Not so soon. The assumption of Lordship gives me just a smidgen more of power, not the mantle and free reign over the Wizangamot.”

“Where there is a smidgen, there can be more,” Bella waved him off. Harry wanted to sigh. As much as he adored the woman, her refusal to acknowledge patience gnawed at him. In his mind, she represented a tornado: powerful, unstoppable, but snubbing any idea of repercussions or reasoning. “Rody and Rabastan are at your beck and call already, not to mention many others. The range of your political associates broadens with each social outing you attend, darling. Even _He_ was impressed-“

“Let’s not talk about _Him_ until you are ready to reveal everything,” Harry interrupted her darkly. Cold crept into his eyes; they blazed with emerald fire.

Unwilling to spoil the day of his initiation into Wizengamot with a petty quarrel, he turned away and pointedly scowled at his own reflection in the mirror, straightening the luxurious Acromantula silk of his dress robes. Evan Rosier had presented them with an upturn of lips and eyes full of lustful admiration, which Harry had accepted graciously but coolly, all according to Bellatrix’s teachings. The woman held the prized position as one of the best seductresses – only Julia Zabini surpassed her in the art of allure.

And perhaps, one day, Harry would, too.

And if that happened, he would specifically seduce the enigmatic wizard who possessed Bella’s dreams and reality, enveloping both Harry’s and hers lives in a cocoon of endless mentions and hints and allusions.

A petty revenge, yes. But a fulfilling one.

From day one Harry had known that Bellatrix worshipped a special someone. That mystery man remained exactly that – a mystery.

But his presence still governed all aspects of Harry’s life.

A punishing hand wrapped around his neck from behind, its long black nails digging their steely sharpness into the tender skin. Harry hid a wince. The bloody prickly things dug deeper, drew blood even, which pooled around the points. Minutes later it would trickle down his neck and to the exquisite collarbones, unless he cast a wordless healing charm to knit together the small wounds.

His mind easily pictured the sadistic delight Bellatrix was probably sporting.

Still, his outward countenance remained ice-cold. By now he knew well how to play the woman, how to fuel her sadistic passion and how to quench it, and to never show the effect she had on him was the recipe for the latter.

“Never forget, ickle Harrykins,” she hissed into his shoulder blade. Her teeth nicked the surface of his robe as she spoke, and if not for them, Harry was certain she would bite it – animalistic desires and habits ran in the family, it seemed, even more so with the inbreeding the Black line had suffered. “You are a present to Him. You have been meant as a gift from me all along, and one day He shall become your master and command you just like he has the full rights to.”

Harry swivelled on his feet and batted her hand away. A wordless wave of magic washed over his neck to heal the marks his mother figure had left. It inspired only mild irritation; her claims of giving him away as a mere thing didn’t concern him much nowadays, since he doubted she truly regarded him as an object to be gifted.

And if, against his judgement, Bellatrix betrayed him and forced him into following or servicing that mysterious obsession of hers, whatever she craved for Harry to do...

Salazar knew Harry always created patterns of back-up plans, of secondary schemes to succeed the main ones should those fall through.

“You won’t dare cast me aside as a mere servant.” The warning chilled his tone. The poisonous green of his eyes induced shivers of dark delight to run across Bella’s back at the intensity and threat glimmering in them. Harry was staring her down the way she had taught him to stare his opponents down and destroy enemies with no word nor action but a glance.

“No, not a servant,” she conceded after a second of drinking in the result of her careful mentoring. “You are too well-trained to be a servant, darling, too worthy and powerful and _twisted_.”

Harry stood still and allowed her to approach him slowly, her footfalls soft on the dark green carpets adorning the floors of Lestrange Manor they shared with Rodolphus and Rabastan.

“You will be his most prized.”

“His most prized _what_ ,” Harry pushed coldly. No matter how often he probed, how much he attempted to trick or deceive her into an answer, her lips bound the truth tight and never let it leave the confines of her mouth. “You have been pushing me into a relationship of unknown quality with an unknown man since the beginning of my residence here. Haven’t I earned the right to know by now?”

Bellatrix waved him off with a crow of laughter. Her laughs never amazed with melodious quality; on the contrary, for the woman rumoured to be the mistress of lust and pleasure her unseemly chortles grated on Harry’s nerves.

“Rights? With him, you get concessions. Sometimes, if he deems you deserving, but no sooner.” Her voice dropped, now full of recollection, awe and caution all thrown together in one cauldron. “And, of course, only fools take his favour for granted. Only fools believe he is bound by such a simpletons’ concept as _rules_ and _rights_.” She scoffed. “And _please_ don’t mention laws. Those are just bureaucratic pests.”

 Harry chuckled and threw her a fond look.

Once again, they shelved the topic of Him and Harry’s own potential status as a present to someone.

The best way to rule Bellatrix was ignore her quirks and mumblings, and so Harry did. His thoughts drifted to his allies, old and new, the ones he had secured and the ones he would procure that night, all encompassing different ranks in society and different levels of wealth.

Charming, persuasive, alluring... Those were the adjectives best suited to his features: sharp and typically pureblood, his face was bejewelled with a pair of verdant eyes which sparkled in the rare times of his joy, and framed with locks of raven black that descended in waves to his waist.

Harry didn’t really like his long hair. Frankly, it was a bitch to wash and brush all the time, not to mention the hair styles he had to suffer at the more ostentatious of the social parties, but Bella always screeched at him whenever he used a cutting spell or brought a pair of scissors to it. And, well, no one mistook him for a girl anyway, so he let it rest. Some inches of hair was a fair price to pay for all the luxuries Bella provided him with courtesy of the Black and Lestrange fortunes.

As always, her weird obsession with controlling his looks had everything to do with Him.

In Harry’s childhood, she would gently comb his hair, so much like a mother that he hadn’t minded the act, and tell him stories of a muggle-less future where wizards reigned. She would sigh dreamily, and cradle him close, and caress his skin as she revealed the innermost aspirations hidden away under the locks of society-forced toleration for the beings she despised and resented.

Those moments had bonded them greatly, even when at first Harry had been drowning in guilt over the differences in his and his parents’ views to fully appreciate the amount of trust she placed on him by her revelations. You didn’t come upon trust casually in the former members of the Slytherin clan.

Harry soaked in every drop of knowledge and information she squeezed out, and followed her every instruction, as per the conditions he had agreed all those years ago under the pouring rain and in the slums.

He acted a perfect heir to the Lestrange family who couldn’t beget a child themselves, gaining allies and upholding the honour of the old line, all the while keeping up an excellent job on his marks and personal research and, of course, being politically well-informed.

As the heir and now head of the Potter family, Harry legally received a seat in Wizengamot as soon as he hit seventeen, which had happened about a month ago. So, as per the tradition, the Ministry threw a ball to welcome new members, which weren’t that many, especially if one took into consideration the laws laid by Minister Riddle a couple of decades ago. If before that most people could have acquired a place in the ministerial institute, now only those who had grown up in the magical world could do it; muggleborns and squibs never obtained a seat, no matter their riches or their influence (which generally wasn’t much).

Dreadful, Harry supposed. For them, of course. While he held nothing in particular against muggleborns – or mudbloods, as Bella insisted he called them – the less competition, the better.

“Will my classmates be present?” Harry fiddled with his Head-of-the-family ring. It glistened with rubies and gold – not the most Slytherin colouring, but Harry never forgot his roots that lay in Gryffindor, and thus didn’t mind it. He always ignored Bella’s sneer when she glanced at the piece of jewellery. “Malfoy will, of course; he never parts from his daddy’s side nowadays, but the others-“

“I doubt they’d miss the last chance they have to mingle before the school year starts. Hogwarts is dreadfully boring. No torture, no Dark Arts... Ah, darling, I don’t envy you at all!”

Harry slanted his eyes coyly to observe her as she combed her wild curls for one last time before they went.

“Well, just because we don’t _officially_ participate in any questionable activities, doesn’t mean we have to sit around singing odes to Dumbledore and worshipping Light magic,” Harry drawled with a smirk. His emerald eyes gleamed with amusement. “A resourceful wizard always finds a way... Don’t tell me you didn’t manage to discover one in your years of schooling?”

Bella chortled, throwing her comb on the nearest flat surface for a house elf to put away later. “So what is it? The Slytherin dorms or the dungeons or the Forbidden Forest?”

“Not telling you,” Harry teased and made a zipping motion at his mouth. Bella pouted.

While his initial years had been tough in that regard, because Harry’s body had ached for the addictive thrill of Dark Arts which he hadn’t had any opportunity to quell, and it had been distracting him and hurting him, he had later learnt to sneak out to Hogsmeade through a hidden passageway his father had whispered him about in his childhood. Not an ideal solution, too risky and dangerous, but at least the village was outside of the school wards, and thus didn’t trigger him.

It had worked for Harry for some time, but the previous year he had stumbled upon another brilliant way to tiptoe around Dumbledorian tight control over the magic cast on his turf. Harry called it the Room of Requirement. He wished it to be secret, so even his friends and family didn’t know about it... not that he shared many secrets or plans with them.

Harry’s thoughts involuntarily flashed to his admiration of Dark Lords. Or one Dark Lord in particular, the most recent and the most powerful and the most admirable one.

After all, Harry had spent years planning for Grindlewald’s release, and while he had no fool-proof schemes afoot, his new position in Wizengamot allowed him the access to a greater variety of allies, the secret supporters who longed for the glorious days of the blond German’s reign.

Harry never revealed his own yearnings even to Bella.

“I’m ready!” she finally exclaimed as she looked herself over in the nearest mirror. They cluttered the entire manor, because the woman was simply that vain and took pride in her appearance and no one else. Harry smirked in reply.

“Going fashionably late, are we?”

OoOoOoOoO

 

As expected, by the time they arrived, the ball was in full swing. After a round of congratulations bestowed upon him, during which Bella stood by his side as a pleased mother figure that she was, and a few dances with random young women, Harry stepped aside to observe the coteries of wizards assembled in the hall.

All of them donned marvellous dress robes of richest material, wore perfectly fake smiles, and chatted up one another with sweet compliments and false promises. Most of the younger, unburdened by responsibilities, attendees danced to an old traditional wizarding ballad, while their parents preferred political dances with their superiors and inferiors alike. Breaking into small groups, they whispered between one another and forged deals in the vortex of the ball.

One group in particular stood out; the biggest one. The one that included the most shining and skilled dancers. Harry’s eyes involuntarily drifted to it as he twirled his tumbler of firewhiskey.

Malfoy, Nott, Zabini, Greengrass, Avery, Rosier, Crouch...

And, of course, Minister Riddle himself crowned that clique of his most loyal.

Harry wetted his lips as his eyes trailed all over the man, drinking in his features, observing the way Riddle’s face comprised a wall of ice but his dark blue eyes still glinted with alternating calculation and smugness. A superior air constantly hung around him. Harry supposed the arrogance wasn’t out of place; no one else could boast having held the office for a couple of decades, almost immediately since his first appearance in the Ministry back in seventies.

Those sharp eyes flashed and caught his. They trapped Harry immediately and he couldn’t look away.

When the corners of Riddle’s lips quirked upwards at his reaction, Harry fumed at himself for his own stupidity. He wanted to scowl, but another idea snuck into his mind. Now, his own smirk surfaced, to which Riddle raised an eyebrow.

Why not say hello to the Minister? It _was_ Harry’s ball after all.

Confidently, he walked up to the group of upstarts. All the while he felt hawk-eyed gazes on his skin, everyone surreptitiously glancing to see who dared disrupt the sanctity of Riddle’s inner circle.

“Minister Riddle,” Harry greeted smoothly.

“Harry Potter,” Riddle replied, his voice just as velvety and alluring as Harry remembered it being. Riddle took a tumbler from the nearest house elf and handed it to Harry in offer. Harry glanced at his own in surprise, seeing it empty. When had he managed to drink it all? “The star of the evening.”

“The one and only,” Harry replied cheekily. “Fancy seeing you here, Minister. You don’t ordinarily deign these welcome parties with your presence.”

The Minister shook his head of greying hair which obviously used to be pitch black.

“This one is an exception. James Potter was a good friend of mine, a good worker and a good Auror.” Something indiscernible flickered in his eyes at the praise. It was a compliment, but pronounced with such a blank face, it lost any meaning. Harry envied that display of command over one’s emotions. “So responsible, worthy, and kind... It was such a pity to see him go.” Riddle looked sharply at him. “And you witnessed his death, right?”

The man’s groupies all silenced their own conversations to observe him, all vultures seeking out his weaknesses. The probing didn’t deter Harry. On the contrary, it spurned him on.

“His and my mother’s,” Harry began with a shrug. Nonchalance veneered his expression even as his fist clenched at his side. Those memories still pained him, he still had to take Dreamless Sleep Potion some nights to get a breath of sleep. “And not the process, just the aftermath.”

“Oh.” Riddle took a calm sip. His eyes never left Harry’s face, staring at him over the rim. “Tragic, I suppose.”

“You can’t imagine how.”

 Yes, Harry didn’t believe Riddle had ever seen the mangled corpses of his parents lying on the floor like discarded dolls, their possessions strewn around them disregarding the blood as the muggle thieves had searched the place.

Then again...

Harry tossed a shrewd look at the calm Minister. The man was an elusive one. Not much was known about the gap years he had taken between his graduation and the assumption of a minor post in the Ministry, from which he had climbed up in ranking in a mere year. An enigma. Harry adored those, but also took care not to burn himself in the process of getting to the bottom of the mystery.

A ghost of a smile graced the man’s face again. “Have you ever considered what you would like to do after Hogwarts?”

Oh, he had considered. He doubted Riddle would appreciate the truth... but Dementors in the Azkaban might. They always craved more food, all the tasty emotions.

“At first I considered the Auror office,” Harry started smoothly, “in honour of my father... But then realised I’m not exactly cut out for it.”

Riddle quirked an eyebrow, inclining his head. Lucius scoffed. Harry glanced at the blond with hidden amusement; he knew perfectly well why the man despised Aurors. Actually, all Riddle’s main supporters weren’t favourable to that particular Department on the whole, their annual escapades to Borgin and Burke’s to hide some of the more questionable items only proving it. Why, Harry himself was present on more than one occasion when the Lestranges needed to quickly conceal their ownership of some Dark artefacts that could get the entire family landed in prison.

“Why not? I hear you are good with your wand.”

“’Good’ doesn’t mean superb,” Harry retorted sharply and folded his arms over his chest. A lie, of course, like most of what came out of his mouth. Despite his constant meddling in politics and the insatiable thirst he felt to improve his skills of political dancing, he felt at home in battles. Even those Hogwarts mock-duels.

“My son notified me of a group you have founded,” Lucius intervened, just like Harry had expected to at the breach of the subject of duelling. “How do you call it? Ah, Defence Association.” Silvery grey eyes narrowed, speculation written in them. “Although it seems more like an _Attack_ Association to me, from all the spells Draco has reported you study. Some of them are borderline illegal.”

Harry’s lips pulled apart in a shark-like smile. “’Borderline’ being the key word here. I think I’m not the only one here who walks the edge of the law, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Excuse me?” Lucius raised his eyebrows. “I do not appreciate such hints. They cause bad rumours to go around.”

“Now, now, Lucius, Mister Potter,” Riddle’s silky voice interfered. “Arguing about the violation of law is not the most intelligent activity in front of the Minister, do you not find it so?” A spot of blush tinted Harry’s face at the chastisement. “And you mustn’t throw such accusations in the face of my influential supporters, Mister Potter. Enemies accumulate.”

“Well, I’d say it is Mister Malfoy who accused me first.” Harry sent a glacial look at the said man. “I take great pride in my group, Minister. All the students under my tutelage are of importance to me. You might understand the sentiment if you think about your own Ministry, for I believe that as leaders of those organisations we feel responsibility and fatherly affection for them. And of course I wouldn’t want my Defence Association – Headmaster-approved, by the way – to be taken down just because someone believes the material to be _borderline illegal_.”

Riddle stretched his hand to lift Harry’s chin. The young man’s eyes flashed but he didn’t recoil at the touch, surprisingly cold despite the warmth of the ballroom.

“Remarkable,” Riddle murmured. “It is the news of this club of yours that made me pay closer attention to you, Mister Potter, and dig up some records.”

Harry frowned, wondering where that was all going, and covertly freed his chin from the man’s grasp.

“I feel you have some potential. If you assume that being an Auror or a Hit-Wizard aren’t desirable options to you, I can offer you a good position as my assistant.”

Harry sucked in his breath, his eyes wide and bewildered. Such offers... No one made them out of the blue to an unknown boy wizard not out of Hogwarts. His eyes narrowed in the next second. What was the man’s endgame? Countless wizards circulated around the wizard in hopes of being his _anything_ , but he always crushed their dreams with cruel words and humiliation.

True, Harry had acquired some clout over the years, but his influence spread to the younger wizards and witches, those in Hogwarts and barely out of it, mainly stopping at those around twenty-five. While they were heirs, they weren’t heads, and mostly occupied lower ministerial positions or owned small businesses. Harry’s oldest and most powerful allies included Evan Rosier, Bella (whom he couldn’t rely on, since she would sprint to that Mystery Man’s side any time), Rudolphus, and Rabastan.

“Evan Rosier heavily recommended you to me,” Riddle continued. Harry deciphered an echo of an innuendo in his voice, and gritted his teeth. He had an idea just what sort of wishful rumours Rosier spread about them, which consolidated his belief that the man had to be silenced somehow eventually. Not now though. Now, he still had his uses. “Narcissa was awed by your rumoured skill, not to mention the constant stream of recommendations pushed at me by your family.”

When Harry found the voice to speak, to his relief, his voice was smooth. “Greatly honoured, Minister Riddle. I would love to accept, but-“

“Then you accept,” Riddle butted in, words full of steel. Harry ground his teeth at the insolence.

“I am still a Hogwarts student for this year. While I’ll be allowed to leave for the Wizengamot meetings, a job as your assistant is a more constant one, and I’m afraid I won’t fulfil it. Maybe in the future?”

“I doubt that Hogwarts students will get much education this year,” Riddle replied coldly, his eyes flashing with evident displeasure. “The tournament with Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, many new faces, new bright emotions... NEWT and OWL standards are going to be lowered for the year.”

Harry raised his eyes. He had heard the vague rumours of the tournament, of course, but hadn’t heard about the Ministry’s leniency. To be so gracious as to lower standards, Riddle must be getting something out of hosting the event, and Harry vowed to himself to get to the bottom of it all. He had to find something to occupy himself with besides winning, right?

“This is surprising,” Harry mused aloud. “You are going to be present at the event, no?”

Riddle smiled down at him in a condescending way.

“I have rooms at Hogwarts prepared for me already. The Headmaster showed some reluctance, of course.” An expression of cruel amusement fleeted across Riddle’s face, and Harry suppressed a snort. Oh yes, he imagined Dumbledore would be unimpressed. “But I- ah _, persuaded_ him.”

Well, and so Harry already had one of the answers. Riddle’s presence at the competition allowed for his influence to slowly seep into Hogwarts, the citadel of Albus Dumbledore and the old headmaster’s impenetrable fortress. It was difficult for the Minister to tiptoe in the school around the old man’s watchful eyes, so there was a sort of an invisible but tangible borderline between Riddle’s Ministry and Dumbledore’s Hogwarts. Both wizards stayed rooted in their fortresses, and while both managed to tip the scale once in a while, obtaining favour amongst the opposing side, the impasse had been standing for years.

If Riddle sewed seeds of his authority in Hogwarts for an entire year, it might seriously damage the Dumbledore-worshipping. Quite clever, in Harry’s opinion.

...And would surely take the attention away from Harry’s own schemes. Like planning the release of Grindelwald.

And he knew a recipe for a quick engorgement of his sway, something like-

“Then, if you are staying at Hogwarts, I wouldn’t mind being your assistant, Minister.” Harry put on a sweet smile. “Better to start early, don’t you think?”


End file.
